Baker's Dozen

by Michele McGrath

  It was my turn now to be puzzled. I’d been to most of the nightclubs on Market Street, but I had never heard of one called the ‘Firebird’. It must be new.

  “Here we are now.” The car stopped at the terminus and everyone got off. We watched as the car was pushed onto the turntable and reversed, always a fascinating sight.

  Then my companion led me along the street, past The Emporium. I had a moment of cold panic, wondering where we were going, until I saw a red and gold flickering sign saying, ‘The Firebird’. Funny, I couldn’t remember ever seeing it before, although I must have walked past the spot many times. As we got nearer, I could hear dance band music. It was faint, but I recognised the song as ‘In the Mood’. My grandmother had the record, an old 78, and often played it on her gramophone. It was scratchy and tinny, but I always liked the catchy beat.

  The door stood wide open, with its name repeated in chipped gold letters that looked very old and damaged. They couldn’t be, of course, if the place was new. Something must have been wrong with the paint, unless they meant it to look distressed. A short hallway led us to an uncarpeted staircase going down. The music became louder, throbbing, almost painful. I picked up my long skirt and my companion put his hand under my elbow to steady me. His touch felt like ice. It chilled me suddenly and I shivered.

  “Goodness, you’re cold,” I gasped. “You’re worse than me and I’m freezing.”

  “We’ll be warmer downstairs,” he replied.

  The room was hazy with cigarette smoke and it was much larger than I expected, stretching away on all sides. The light was dim and candles flickered on small round tables. At one end, I could just make out a dance band, wearing white jackets that shone under the spotlights. As we went towards them, I could see that, oddly, they were all elderly; none of them looked younger than sixty. They were all white too, not a black face among them. I had never seen such a group, but they could play! It made you want to dance and dance and never stop.

  We sat at a table beside the dance floor and my companion ordered drinks. When he asked me what I wanted, the waiter didn’t seem to understand what I meant by ‘a spritzer’. Surprised, I had to explain that it was white wine mixed with soda water. Both men pulled faces at my description. The waiter gave me a very strange look when he brought my drink and placed it in front of me. My companion had ordered bourbon, but he left it untouched.

  The band was now playing something I recognised as a quickstep. Dad had tried to teach it to me once, not very successfully.

  “Shall we dance?” my companion asked, noticing my interest.

  “I don’t know whether I can,” I said, looking at the whirling couples, “I’m more used to disco music.”

  “Disco? What’s that?” I thought he said. I must have misheard him. The music was exciting, but so loud it was hard to hear each other properly. I decided that, if we couldn’t talk, it would be better to dance rather than sit there in silence. So I laughed and got up, thinking I might as well try. It didn’t matter if I made a mess of the steps. After all, no one knew me here.

  “Follow me,” my companion said, taking me firmly in his arms, “let me lead you.” He was still freezing, although the room was stuffy and I was beginning to warm up at last. His touch made me tingle, as if I had just put my hand into newly fallen snow. The dance was lively and I had enough to do just following his lead. I had no time to think of other things. We had only gone around the floor once, before I realised what an excellent dancer he was. He made everything easy for me.

  When the quickstep ended, the band switched to a waltz and my companion changed tempo. I found the waltz easier, because it was slower, and I had danced it a few times before. The music was also quieter. We could talk to each other, without shouting.

  “I don’t even know your name,” I said.

  “Joe,” he replied.

  “That was my grandfather’s name,” I exclaimed.

  He laughed. “It’s common enough.”

  “I suppose it is, but, how odd - I’m Jo too. I was called Josephine after my grandfather.”

  Joe ran a finger gently down my cheek. “Josephine...” he murmured dreamily. “A lovely name for a lovely girl. It suits you.”

  We continued to waltz until the dance ended and then Joe led me back to our table. The band stopped playing for a few moments and we could hear the chatter of other people for the first time. Joe kept looking at me.

  “You know, you remind me of someone,” he said.

  “Who’s that?”

  “There’s a girl I know, back home in Plains, Georgia. You have the same dimples when you smile.”

  My hands flew to my face.

  “My grandparents used to live in Plains, Georgia,” I whispered, my grandmother still does. What is her name?”

  “Who?”

  “The girl from Plains I remind you of. Perhaps I know her.”

  “Her name is Mary but everyone calls her Mollie.”

  “That’s my grandmother’s name,” I whispered. “I get my dimples from her.” Icy fingers crept down my spine and, for the first time, I felt afraid, yet I didn’t know why. There seemed to be too many coincidences. At the moment the band started playing again and I couldn’t hear what he said. He held out his hand to me and led me back onto the dance floor.

  We danced faster and faster as I found the steps becoming easier. Again I had no time to think of anything else. It was wonderful to be able to dance like that.

  At the end of the dance, I needed to catch my breath, so we sat down and I sipped my drink and listened to the music, which was softer now, almost melancholy. It was only later that I realised Joe had never touched his drink at all. An elderly lady came up to us at the table, carrying a basket of flowers. Joe examined them carefully and bought a single, perfect, white rose. With a little bow, he presented it to me.

  “For the loveliest lady in the room,” he said, smiling.

  “Oh, but I have an advantage. I’m the only one who isn’t in fancy dress and uniforms never flattered anybody,” I said, feeling shy. Then suddenly I realised that I was, indeed, the only one who was not wearing a uniform. Women, as well as men, were dressed in 1940’s style military costumes. Most were naval, but all of the forces were represented. Only the band, in their white tuxedos, and the waiters, wearing black tailcoats, were different. I had wandered unexpectedly into a theme party and did not look the part. I began to feel uncomfortable.

  “I’m out of place,” I said to Joe, “in a dance dress rather than in a costume. If I’d planned to come here tonight, I would have hired fancy dress.”

  “Hired fancy dress? What do you mean?” He looked puzzled, which was odd.

  “A Second World War uniform like everybody else. They’re excellent, wherever you got them from. They look so authentic.”

  He frowned. “What are you talking about?”

  “Look around you. This room looks like a set in an old war movie, the music, the atmosphere and everyone in costume.”

  “If only this was a movie,” he sighed.

  The music suddenly stopped and the bandleader stepped up to the microphone.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I have a message for the crew of the USS Franklin D. Roosevelt. Recall has been brought forward to midnight. The time is now fifteen after eleven. Will all members of the crew please report on board immediately? Thank you. Good luck and may God bless you all in the coming weeks.”

  With a flourish, the band struck up the National Anthem and everybody jumped to their feet. We stood at attention, while it was played, though nobody sang the words. I started to, but then my voice died as I realised I was singing alone. When the music ceased, a sort of groan rose from the dance floor and Joe cursed softly under his breath.

  “That means me, I’m afraid.” He looked at his watch. “It will take me at least twenty minutes to get to the ship and we’ll be sailing almost at once.”

  “Where are you off to? Anywhere nice?” I asked lightly, playing along, trying to ligh
ten the tension that had suddenly filled the room.

  He shot me a suspicious look. “I can’t tell you that; let’s just say out into the Pacific.”

  “Warmth, sunshine, palm trees and no fog, I envy you!” I smiled, but his face was like a mask; as if he was staring at something so dreadful, it made him quail inside.

  “It’ll be hot all right – too hot! Smoke and noise and fumes and fear! Fear! Terrifying, paralysing fear. Fear that one day the Jap will have you in his sights. Fear of being below decks when the bomb hits and you’re fried alive. Fear that the bullet won’t kill you cleanly and you’ll drag yourself round half a man for the rest of your life.”

  He shivered and his eyes were dark haunted pools. My thoughts flashed to the faded picture of my grandfather, so proud in his new uniform, his baby son cradled in his arms. He had the same wavy hair as the man beside me, his namesake, but his face was much younger and had no lines. My dad was only four months old, when my grandfather died, after a kamikaze hit his ship.

  I seized Joe’s shoulders and shook him. “What are you talking about?” I screamed at him. “The war’s been over for nearly fifty years. This silly place has got to you. You dress up and play at nostalgia and you start to think it’s real!”

  He looked at me and his face was grim. He started to answer me, when a tall man with a lot of gold braid on his jacket, came over to us and clapped him on the shoulder.

  “Come on, Scotty, time to go. Call a cab for the lady. Sorry to interrupt your evening, Ma’am.” He touched the brim of his hat to me.

  “Coming, sir. I’ll catch you up.” Wearily, Joe picked up his own hat and put it on. I looked into his face. His were dark and still full of fear, but what did he have to be frightened of? Where was he going that was so terrible?

  “Thank you for a lovely evening,” he said. “For a little while you made me forget. Shall I ever see you again, I wonder?”

  “Perhaps. You could ring me when you come to San Francisco again.”

  He gave me a pen and I scribbled my number onto the menu. He folded it carefully and put it into his wallet. Then he wrapped my shawl around my shoulders and handed me my rose. The stem felt clammy.

  “I’ll call you a cab.”

  “No need. I can use BART. The station’s not far from here.”

  “Bart?” he asked a strange tone in his voice, almost like jealousy.

  “Bay Area Rapid Transit...”

  “Scotty are you coming?” The officer was watching us from the doorway and he looked impatient. The rest of the room was almost empty.

  We hurried up the stairs and out into the street. When we got there, Joe bent and kissed my cheek. “Goodbye, my dear.” His lips, like his hand, were icy. He had never warmed up at all.

  “Goodbye, Joe...Joe...Jo!” My eyes were misty and I could not see, because I was suddenly sure I would never see Joe again.

  “Jo! Jo!” The fog swirled around me and I could see a figure coming towards me out of the mist. For a moment I thought that Joe had come back but he had not. It was Matt’s voice calling to me, not his. For a moment a pang shot through me. Next thing, Matt had caught me up in his arms.

  “Jo! I’ve been so frightened. If something had happened to you, it would have been all my fault. I’m sorry. I should never have said those things to you. I didn’t mean any of them. I’ve been searching and searching for you. If I hadn’t seen you get on the cable car, I wouldn’t have known where to look. Say you forgive me!”

  “I forgive you,” I said mechanically, too cold and numb to respond to the heat of his emotion. I shuddered.

  “Look at you; you’re drenched with the fog. You’ll catch your death standing out here.”

  “It’s not the fog. I’ve just said goodbye to a friend...” my voice trailed off as a familiar clanking sounded ahead of us.

  “We’ll take the cable car back to the hotel, and then you can warm up.” He held his hand out to me but I hesitated. So much seemed to have changed in such a short time. I stared at the empty street. No red and gold sign flashed out into the darkness, there was only the light of the cable car coming towards us out of the fog. My hand tightened convulsively around the stem of the perfect white rose and a thorn pricked my finger. A drop of blood fell to the ground and I watched it fall.

  “I don’t think I will ever be warm again,” I said softly.

  Kilmainham Dawn

  I hurried through the darkened streets, alone. I was excited, terrified, full of grief. Our wedding should have been so different.

  The stark grey prison rose before me. I hesitated. So many of our people had died there, but I knew I must go in.

  The priest led me to the small grey chapel. It was dim and quiet. Then I heard footsteps and they brought him in.

  “Do you, Joseph…?”

  “Do you, Grace…?”

  A shuffling of soldiers’ feet.

  “…man and wife.”

  I looked up into his stark white face.

  “I love you,” he said and took my hand.

  “Ten minutes!” Said his gaoler and we were left alone.

  Ten shining moments to live our married life. We kissed and held each other. No time for passion. Time enough for love and grief and might-have-beens.

  He started to cough and there was blood on his lips. I held him and he clung to me.

  “How are you?” I asked, as his breathing eased.

  “I’ll be better in the morning,” he smiled, “will you pray for me?”

  “As long as I live.” I promised. “Will you pray for me?”

  “Until the end.” He looked up at the cross hanging over the tiny altar. “So many have died, Grace. I’m sorry…”

  I put my finger to his lips.

  “What you did was right.” I whispered. “One day our country will be free.”

  I kissed his bloody lips as the door sprang open.

  “Time’s up!”

  Joseph kissed my hand, “Remember!”

  “I will never forget!”

  I was outside again, walking towards the dawn, walking swiftly so that I should not hear the bullets. The ring was cold and unfamiliar on my finger. I was alone as soft rain began to fall, no wetter than my tears.

  In my Dreams, it is 1944 again...

  I dreamed again last night.

  The war has ended and the prison cells are thrown wide open. I run out, looking for him, screaming with delight. He is coming down the passageway towards me. I run into his arms, sobbing out the anguish of our separation against the rough tweed of his jacket.

  I have never felt such happiness, to be free, to be loved, to be together again. Recently I dream the same dream night after night and I wake full of joy in the morning. As time goes by, new details are added, as if a story is unfolding before me. In my dream, I am not Helen but Annette, not English but French, not young in 2013 but in 1944. In my real life no one is special; in France I am deeply in love with Jean-Claude. The ending is always the same. The war is over and we are together. I am living in someone else’s life as well as my own, but who’s life am I living?

  I know no one called Annette; no one called Jean-Claude. I rarely watch war movies. I have never spent much time in France, although my grandfather was French. He died young, as did my mother. I have only the haziest memories of them both. Why do I dream vividly about a time and a place not my own?

  At first I was delighted to wake up and be so happy. Now I want to stay asleep, grasping at details of that other life. I try to hold on as they are dragged from me by returning consciousness. I am greedy for more information, curious about the lives of the people I meet.

  The town square is old and battered, with its war memorial, church and shops. The baker is Anatole. Madame Yvette makes the most delicious pastries. Père Richard, the Curé, was wounded in the last war and turned to God for forgiveness when the violence ended at last. The teacher, Vivienne, is a friend of mine. We were at school together. I am definitely in the summer of 1944, because t
he Allies are fighting their way across the countryside of France. The air around me is electric with both hope and terror. We are in the way of the advance and the Germans are preparing to fight. The town is full of them. We keep our heads down and move warily, as we go about our business. I am young and pretty, but they no longer trouble me. The soldiers are thinking of other things; the time for dalliance has gone. I am thankful, because I must do an important job before the Allies come. If I do not carry out this task, history itself will be changed. How? Why? I am becoming anxious. How stupid it is to be anxious about a dream.

  I do not even know the name of the town where I am living or what happened in 1944. Yet the people seem so alive, it does not seem possible they exist only in my mind. I search for clues to their existence, without success. There are no records of a town with a baker was named Anatole or a priest called Père Richard. With so little information, I do not think I will ever find them. Over seventy years have passed, time enough for everyone to have died, if they ever lived or survived the war.

  I try to ignore my dreams but they will not go away until I accomplish my task. I sometimes wonder if I am going mad. My dream world is becoming more real than the world around me, like living inside a fascinating book. You are desperate to find out what happens, but you do not have enough time to read. Perhaps I will never know the full story.

  Then, last night, as I wandered through my town again, I entered the little church for the first time. It is white walled and smells of dust. Cane chairs, some of them broken, are scattered around the nave. I walk down the aisle towards the small stone altar and notice a missal lying on one of the seats. Idly I pick it up and flip it open. The inscription on the flyleaf reads, ‘Notre Dame des Fleurs’.

  “Our Lady of the Flowers,” I murmur to myself. The name is so unusual I wonder if I have remembered the words correctly when I wake up. Is there a church anywhere in France with so distinctive a name? It is Saturday and I spend the morning on the Internet. I take hours, sifting the information on all the churches named ‘Notre Dame’ or the people selling flowers. The French sites tax my language skills, but I do not give up. It is a shock when the words jump off the page at me - Notre Dames des Fleurs, in the small town of Saint Clément les Eaux.